He Thought She Was An Angel
by dance in the dark
Summary: Five Times Buffy Summers met Thomas Shelby. Four times she walked away from him and once she did not. Peaky Blinders Gangster Thomas Shelby runs into Buffy Summers in 1924/25
1. Chapter 1

Five Times Buffy Summers walked away from Thomas Shelby and once she did not.

A/N:  
Peaky Blinders is owned by the BBC and Buffy by Joss Whedon. I make no money from this, it is written purely to keep the Muse quiet.

Peaky Blinders, post-season 3 (after the death of Gace Shelby). Buffy timeline to be revealed. I haven't seen any Buffy/Peaky Blinder crossovers.  
Any mistakes please let me know. I wrote the start of this at 4am this morning to shut the Muse up.

*Swearing and violence, the same as in Peaky Blinders

…...

Date 1924/25 Birmingham, England

The first time Thomas Shelby saw her, he thought she was his wife come back from the grave.

The social function at Birmingham's Town Hall was a charity one and the city dignitaries, as usual, had invited him along. Thomas Shelby knew it wasn't for the pleasure of his company no matter what the invitation claimed. Nor did they appreciate his pretty face or jovial personality. He was neither jovial nor was he pretty. Never had been, never would.

No, he'd got the invitation because it was always wise to invite and have a member of the Shelby family in attendance at official functions. The Shelby family controlled, one way or another, most of the commerce and men in Birmingham. No one wanted a strike on their hands, no one wanted their goods unexpectedly being held up and no one wanted a warehouse fire.  
Not that he wasn't a generous benefactor to charitable causes. His late wife had even set up a home for the city's orphans.

So he stood there, gypsy, gangster, murderer, and one time war-hero talking to the local toffs, factory owners, and businessmen, drinking champagne like the best of them. He was one of them in appearance and his money was as good as theirs but he knew they'd never fully accept him. Yet the rot was as deep in them as it was in him and that's why they hated him. Because he knew what they were and what they did under that thin facade of respectability.

He took out his silver cigarette case and placed the cigarette in his mouth. Walked past several prominent members of Birmingham's finest constabulary. He'd dealt with them all at some point in the past. Slipped money in their hands to look the other way or maybe dish out the occasional beating to those prisoners that resided in their care. And had in return suffered a beating at their hands when they'd been charged by those with enough government pull to do so.

That thought gave him a sour taste in his mouth. Maybe he was overdue a trip to see Lizzie and see if she could break the depression that clutched at his heart. She might be a whore, but at least she was an honest one.

So he'd walked out of the main room and into the side room where they were serving a buffet and that's where he spotted her.

And for a moment he thought she was Grace come back to him as an angel.

Her back was turned towards him and the last rays of the evening sun fell from the tall and narrow window lighting directly onto her. She stood in a pool of light and glowed. Golden blonde hair and a silver dress. She sparkled in a way that gold and diamonds did not. She looked like an angel.

And then the sun dropped behind the rooftops and she was a mortal woman once more. She was not an angel. She was not his Grace.

But he still found her fascinating. She wore her hair long and bound up. A simple silver ribbon wound around her head. He wondered what she'd look like with it down, flowing around her face and down her naked back. So many women had cut their hair these days, following the fashion of those women they'd see at the flicks. He dropped his eyes to examine more of her. Slender shoulders, her lower half hidden behind those seated at a table in front of him. Only the top half of her silver sheathe dress was visible. The style although modern, was not cutting edge fashion such as he'd seen in London, but more provincial. He noted the actual fabric was good quality and the way she carried herself made it look more expensive than it actually was.

Who was she? Daughter of one of the aspiring men of the district? Wife? Or a whore here to ply her trade? Was there much difference?

He wandered across to within a few feet of her, taking a drag from his cigarette and pretending interest in the buffet, but watching her. She laughed at something said to her and he realised it wasn't just her hair that reminded him of Grace. It was the set of her shoulders, the way she carried herself. A confidence that suggested she carried a weapon and knew how to use it.

Like everyone else in this place, she wasn't what she seemed.

He ran his eyes along her stocking clad legs to shoes that sparkled like the rest of her. Lingering on the neat turn of her ankles. Calves with muscles suggesting she exercised. He pulled his eyes away and stared at the purse she carried under her arm. Was it his imagination or was there something pointed in there?

When she turned around to stare pointedly at him he knew he was right about her. She sensed the danger in him as he sensed the danger in her. Young, small, and beautiful she might be, but her eyes held more than a hint of darkness.

It was the Mayor who saw them staring at each other and introduced them. "Ah, Thomas Shelby, may I present Miss Buffy Summers. Miss Summers this is Mr Thomas Shelby a local businessman. Miss Summers has come all the way from California in America, Mr Shelby. She's visiting us with her guardian Rupert Giles." Introductions done, the Mayor walked off to introduce others, leaving them alone together.

"You're a Yank." He blew smoke into the air, making no attempt at taking her outstretched hand. The look she had given him during the introduction was one of someone experienced in assessing others. Who was she? What did she want?

"You're a Gypsy," she replied, using the hand she'd outstretched to waft the smoke away from her face, nose wrinkling.

He stubbed the cigarette out in one of the ashtrays and took a glass of wine from a passing waiter. Who was she? Who did she work for? The IRA? The Communists? Or had she been sent by Winston Churchill?

"You've been checking up on me," he said flatly.

"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped, "People here talk."

Green eyes. He noticed her eye colour but then he always noticed the details. She'd faint scars on her arms, he could see them above the long gloves she wore. Scars from bladed weapons, scars from what looked like claws, and scars that looked as if she'd fallen many times. Who was she? What did she want?

Buffy put her glass down onto a nearby table. Turned on her heel and began to walk away.

"I've got to get off home anyway!" he yelled after her. "I've parked the caravan at the side of the road and I'm worried the horse might have wandered off!"

The room went deadly silent and every head turned in his direction. Buffy Summers, the fucking Yank, didn't even bother glancing back at him. It irritated him that she thought herself too good for him and it put him in a bad mood for the rest of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time he saw her she was on the roof and he nearly shot her.

The Peaky Blinders had just come back from torching a factory. The Shelby's hadn't had any major problems in the area around Black Heath for a long while, not since Grace had been accidentally killed by an assassin. Word soon got around of what Thomas's grief and anger had driven him to do and few now underestimated how far a Shelby would go if crossed. Every so often though, someone would push and needed to be pushed back. Thomas Shelby always made sure he was the one who pushed the hardest.

Thomas knew he could have left his men to fire the place without him. It could have been done while he was in his fine home in the country many miles away. He could have sat and read a book by the fire, drinking hot cocoa made by the cook and served to him on a silver tray by one of the maids, but that wasn't his way. It was good to remember, once in a while, where he'd come from and what sort of man he really was underneath the finery.

As he walked along the street with the smell of petrol and ash still in his nose, he saw Billy Barnes lying slumped in a doorway. Billy Barnes who'd lost an arm and an eye at the Somme. Billy Barnes sent home from the war to a wife and five kids. Now only half a man who was forced to take any job in order to survive. A good man, whose inner demons got the better of him sometimes and he'd try to drown them in alcohol.

Demons, so many men had come home from the Great War carrying demons inside them. Himself included.

"I'll take Billy home," Tom called out to the others. It was too cold to leave him there. The man would become ill and his meagre wages were the only thing that stood between his family and the workhouse.

Arthur gave him a lift hauling the man to his feet. Throwing his one arm over his shoulder and letting the man lean into him.

"I'll see you down the pub later," said Arthur. Arson was thirsty work and they'd all spend an hour or two swilling away the smell and taste of burn from their throats.

Billy Barnes only lived a couple of streets away in a two up two down terrace in Tram Street. It didn't take long to get him home. Thomas took him in the back way, through the shared yard. The kitchen door was on the latch and there was no lock on the door. It wasn't as if there was much to steal in this area and the neighbours usually looked out for each other. He dumped the man on the wooden chair at the kitchen table and took a look around the bare room. They'd be lucky to be able to pay the rent after this drinking session.

He threw a few shillings down on the table when he heard Billy's wife coming down the wooden stairs. Billy and Mary were proud people and wouldn't accept charity but pride doesn't fill a hungry child's belly. He knew she'd find it, suspect he'd left it, but she'd not be able to return it as she couldn't prove it. This way they'd be able to pay the weeks rent. He looked around at the bare kitchen once again, noticing the lack of coal by the fire and the chill to the room. Billy had been a skilled welder before the war, he'd been earning a decent wage and he'd been happy. The war had changed a lot of lives for the worse. Changed a lot of men in a lot of ways.

Billy had lost more than an arm and eye during the war, he'd lost hope.

He'd left Billy, face down on his kitchen table and went back out into the night. It was cold, and he pulled the scarf around his face and pulled the brim of his flat cap further down. His fingers touching the flat of the blades, giving him that familiar feeling of security and belonging. The Peaky Blinders. The men who fought with razor blades sewn into the brim of their caps.

The sudden chill and the night's work gave him a twinge in his bladder. He needed to piss. It wasn't the first time he'd pissed in an alley and it wouldn't be the last. In fact, he preferred it to using some of the toilets around here. This was a slum area and often a full row of overcrowded houses shared a couple of toilets. Toilets whose night soil wasn't removed as often as it should be.

He'd just finished when a small noise made him look up. There was a man, or maybe a boy, crouched in shadows on top of a nearby outhouse roof. Tom pulled out his revolver, pulled back the hammer and pointed it at him. Not many would dare argue with a gun.

The full moon came out from behind a cloud and lit up the alleyway.

It wasn't a boy on top of the roof, it was Buffy Summers. She wore men's dark clothing and an oversized cap much like the one he wore. She'd pulled hers down low to hide her hair and features. He recognised her though and it was a good job. She'd sneaked up on him and he'd almost blown the woman's brains out.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asked. He didn't put the gun away. Just kept it nice and steady as he watched her. Normal women didn't sit on roofs in the middle of the night. Who was she? Who was she working for? Senses on the alert in case she'd been planted to keep him busy while her friends crept up on him. He didn't need an ambush. He wasn't in the mood.

She shook his head in disapproval. "Do you kiss your mom with that mouth, Thomas Shelby?"

"Do I kiss my mother with this mouth? Are you crazy?" He was Thomas Shelby, he'd a gun pointed at her and she was talking about him kissing his mother? Her lack of concern for the weapon in his hand threw him. How long had she been watching him? The strangeness of the situation put him on the back foot and he snarled harshly, "Did you come here just to watch me take a piss or do you want something? Just tell me what you want and then fuck off,"

She tutted. "Rude much? Have you got Tourettes or something? One, I don't want you for anything. Two, I'm not crazy and three, I wasn't watching you peeing, cos, eww, that's just like really eww."

He saw her shudder and her mouth curl with distaste. It was probably that which made him realise she wasn't here to kill him, even if she did use strange words he'd never heard of. What the fuck was Tourettes?

"So what you doing here then?" he asked, still suspicious.

"I was out here pat- er, um, taking a stroll and I thought you were a... someone else," she explained, rising to her feet.

She was such a terrible liar that he nearly laughed. He lowered the gun and put the weapon away.

"I'll walk you home," he said. He'd no idea what she was doing out here at this time of night, but it wasn't safe for her. Not a young girl on her own. There were worse people than him about. He'd feel better knowing she was safely tucked up in her bed and not wandering the streets getting into trouble.

Buffy rose gracefully to her feet and he moved towards her, expecting her to drop down into his arms. Instead, she stood looking off into the distance, almost as if she could see as well in the dark as during the day. She looked so relaxed up there. What sort of girl was at ease on a roof in the middle of the night? Tom watched her tilt her head, scanning the area with her eyes. Searching for something? Hunting. She was hunting. Hunting?

She suddenly stilled and her eyes darted to his. "I'm gonna have to take a rain check on that. Gotta go. People to see, places to go and demons to slay. See ya around, Tom-Tom."

Before he could form a reply, she'd ran off into the darkness, leaping from the top of one wall to another, climbing up onto a factory roof and disappearing into the darkness.

The following day he went back to the spot and measured out some of the leaps she'd taken. People stood in doorways watching him as he paced out the distances. He stood looking at the high and slippery roof of the factory for a long while. It probably made the factory owner nervous. He'd stared from out his office window before darting back out of sight. Thomas took no notice, he was deep in thought.

It seemed Buffy Summers was not your average girl. He was intrigued. He decided to make enquiries about her and this guardian of hers Rupert Giles.


	3. Chapter 3

The third time he saw her he misjudged her...

Thomas Shelby sat in the balcony overlooking the stage watching the acts performing. He'd come to the Music Hall with Michael and they'd been joined by two ladies of disrepute. Possibly his brothers had sent them, thinking he needed cheering up. They were nice enough girls, but he wasn't in the mood.

Lounging back in his plush seat, he let Michael entertain the whores while he watched the various Music Hall acts. Singers, male and female, performing dogs, a magician and finally, a line of dancing girls. He'd seen them before performing routines, but this time he spotted something that made him sit up straight in his seat. Was that..? Surely, it wasn't?

He blinked, hardly believing his eyes and leaned forward to get a closer look. Michael was so busy grinning and chatting to the women that he didn't even notice something on stage had grabbed his cousin's attention.

Thomas had seen this dancing troupe many times before. They were regulars on Birmingham's |Music Hall circuit, but tonight they had a new member. She was the smallest one of the group and they'd put her right at the end of the line where they always put the new girls. That meant she was right below him. He stared down at the blonde hair decorated with a feathered headdress and watched Buffy Summers dancing and kicking her way across the stage in high heels. Her sparkling showgirl costume left nothing to the imagination and he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. It was more exposed flesh than he felt comfortable seeing on a respectable woman in a public place. Thomas looked to the other dancers, they wore identical outfits, but the only one he felt like giving his coat to was Buffy.

The golden dress shone, glittered and sparkled under the theatre lights, She smiled and kicked, drawing the audience's attention to her shapely lower legs and strong thighs. The high kicks and leaps she made suggested this was not the first time she'd performed a dance routine. Cheerleading didn't occur to him, instead, he wondered if she'd been a professional dancer back in America.  
The more he watched her working the audience, the more he felt sure he was right. The girl was too sure of herself. Nor would a novice be able to achieve and keep up with the pace of the fast professional dancers.

Tom also noted that she didn't look up in his direction. She must have known he was there. His box was directly over the stage and he'd seen the other dancers glance up to at the Peaky Blinder watching them so intently.

Was she concentrating on her routine? And then he saw her looking at the other private box opposite to his.

There was a toff in there. Sat in full evening dress as if he was at the opera, grey hair, in his sixties and holding a monocle to his eye as he leered down at Buffy. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, never done a hard day's work in his life and looking to pick up the prettiest girl for a quick dalliance. He watched the toff wave his fingers at Buffy. He watched her nod in reply. Tom's hands tightened around the wall of the box.

Was it about the money? Or was there another reason? It certainly wasn't about the old man's good looks or charming personality. Had she no morals? Not that he was one to talk. He'd put money before morals more times than he could count in the past. Yet the thought of that old toff putting his filthy hands on the golden girl below him made his skin crawl.

When the dancing troupe ran off the stage and the toff climbed to his feet to follow them, he found himself doing the same.

"Michael, I've got a lady to see. I might not come back so just go home without me." The whore who'd paid him the most attention pouted. He tossed a note from his pocket and threw it into her lap as he walked from the box. She'd been paid for her time and he'd not been interested in her anyway.

Stopping only to light up a cigarette, he made his way backstage. The stagehands tipped their hats or nodded to him. He didn't know them but they knew him, and when he finally found the narrow corridor containing the dressing rooms, they were happy enough to pocket his money and point him to the one that contained the dance troupe.

He entered without knocking and found most of the troupe in a state of undress. One of the more forward ones, strode up to him dressed in nothing but a skimpy bra, knickers,, stockings and suspenders.

"You looking for something?" she asked, as she patted her waved and bobbed hair. She stole the cigarette from his mouth and took a drag from it, before offering it back to him.

"Keep it," he said, looking at the dark lipstick stains from her mouth. "I'm here looking for Buffy."

She laughed. "The Yank? She's a fast worker, you're the second one tonight wanting her. She's gone off with the nob who comes around here every so often. The one who likes flashing his cash."

Thomas Shelby's face fell. He was too late. He turned to go.

"Try the alleyway that's a dead end at the back of the playhouse. He was telling her it would be quiet back there," one of the other dancers called out. "I didn't like saying anything to her, but that's where they found a girl dead. It's a real creepy spot, that is."

Tom hurried towards the back door. Shoving his way past a trio of male singers, stepping over a yapping dog that wore a ruff around its neck and then rushed down to the Music Hall's rear exit. The elderly man on the door looked at him curiously, before letting him out.

Tom stood in the large yard behind the playhouse looking around him. The spluttering gaslight above the door lit up most of the wide cobbled area, but the smog from coal fires hung low and there was an unnatural still and chill to the night air. On nights like this one, the gypsies would say the devil was walking abroad. They'd cross themselves and whisper about the evil eye.

Where was this alley? Where was Buffy and the toff?

No sooner had he thought it than the sound of violence cut through the still night. It was close by. A metal dustbin kicked over, a loud thump and splintering noise as if something heavy was thrown against something made of wood. Followed by a snarling that sounded more like an animal than human.

"YOU BITCH!" It was the toff's voice. He sounded furious. Was he hurting Buffy?

With his heart racing, Tom ran across the cobbles towards the sound. His smooth-soled evening shoes slipping on the wet cobbles, he ran towards a dark recess between the buildings across from him. He skidded to a halt at the entrance, reaching into his coat pocket. His fingers closing around the solid handle of the gun and holding it in his pocket, at the ready.

"Buffy!" he yelled, his voice echoing in the night. "Are you in there?"

A slim figure came into view. It was Buffy. She emerged from the alley, headdress still in place with a long duster coat covering most of the sparkling showgirl's outfit. Shame and embarrassment were etched in every line of her. She refused to meet his eye.

Tom could see she was holding something behind her back, something she didn't want him to see. Money? Was that it? Although the toff had sounded too angry to have paid her for sex. What else was going on?

"Are you alright?" he asked, peering into the dark alleyway expecting to see the man emerge at any moment.

"Um, how about peachy with a side of keen?" she replied. He'd no idea what she's just said to him. Buffy moved the object she was trying to hide from one hand to the other and looked nervous.

"Does your guardian know what you're doing?" he asked. He'd made enquiries. Buffy's guardian was a well-educated, softly-spoken southerner who worked part-time at Birmingham's main library. Rupert Giles collected books and was an, as yet, unpublished author. He spent a lot of his time researching for a book he was writing on ancient religious beliefs. Research that took him to both a relatives' home in Buckinghamshire and to a certain obscure London address on a regular basis. Thomas knew Buffy sometimes accompanied Rupert Giles to his relatives' home, but, as far as he knew, she never went to London.

She ducked her head, even in the shadowy light he could see the blush on her cheeks. "Yeah, sort of."

Tom raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to her. "He approves of what you do?"

"It's not what you're thinking!" she squeaked. Eyes wide with, what could only be fake, innocence looked up at him.

"No? Then what should I be thinking?" He grabbed her arm and jerked it towards him. Despite her slenderness, there was a steely underlying strength to her, but he'd surprised her. Buffy dropped what she'd been holding and it fell to the ground with a clatter, before rolling off into the gutter.

"Oops," she said. She folded her arms and glared, making no move to retrieve what she'd dropped.

Thomas stepped over to the object and frowned. Picking the stake up, he looked over to her, a question in his eyes only to find that she'd walked off. Across the yard, her long coat swirled in the doorway before the backstage door slammed behind her.

As he prepared to follow her, he hesitated and eyed the alleyway she'd come from. If it was a blind alleyway, the toff must still be in there. If Buffy was reticent in telling him what was she was doing the toff would not be. Especially with a gun pointed at his head.

In the small blind alley, Tom looked around puzzled. It was dark in here, an ideal shadowy spot for those who wanted quick sex up against the wall, but the man he'd expected to find was missing. There was only a tipped over dustbin and the remains of a broken handcart. Nothing else. No Toff, no door he could have left by, no cellar to drop into, no ladder leading to a roof, nothing.  
No. Way. Out.

It was a dead end and yet he'd heard definitely heard the man's voice coming from in here. So where had he gone? Was the man a magician who could disappear at will?

He stepped back, looking at the high walls that enclosed the space and something underfoot cracked. Tom bent down, picking up the broken monocle he'd last seen around the toff's neck. A voice and a monocle belonging to a man who wasn't there, a broken handcart, a tipped over dustbin and a heap of ash. What did it mean? He lifted up the wooden stick with the sharpened point that Buffy had dropped.

Why would she carry a sharpened stake around with her? For protection? He knew ladies often carried around a long hatpin to protect themselves from unwanted attention. His Aunt Polly had been known to do some nasty damage with hers. But Buffy hadn't killed the toff. If she had, there'd be blood on the stake and a body on the floor. Where had the man in the evening suit gone? No one could vanish into thin air, no matter how magicians tried to pretend otherwise.

The elderly attendant let him back in through the stage door. "I'm glad to see the little blonde's come back in one piece." The old man's rheumy grey eyes peered at him, trying to work out who he was."I found little Mabel Athorpe dead back there after her last performance. It's her funeral tomorrow."

He must have seen Tom's face darken, and realise who he spoke to, as he touched his cap. "No disrespect to you, sir. The doctors said it was an accident that killed Mabel. Said she must have fallen onto something pointed and she bled to death." As Tom turned to walk away, he heard the old man add, "Funny thing was, if she bled to death where was the blood?"

Back at the changing room, only one dancer remained. "Where's Buffy?" Tom asked. His eyes roaming the room, taking in the two small mirrors and pegs on the wall holding costumes. He thought she'd have come straight back here to change.

The dancer shrugged. "Dunno, she threw her cards in. Didn't even bother picking up her wages. You looking for some company?"

"Only Buffy's."

"Sweet on her are you?"

Tom Shelby silently stared at the dancer until she dropped her eyes and busied herself putting make-up away.

As he drove the Bentley slowly back to his home, he'd occasionally glance across at the stake and monocle he'd left on the passenger seat next to him. It was like having pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but he'd still no idea how they fitted together to explain Buffy Summers.


	4. Chapter 4

**chapter four**

Peaky Blinders 4

A/N; Caution, strong language, and violence for the outset.  
Location, Birmingham England.  
date 1924-25

The fourth time Thomas Shelby met Buffy was in a graveyard...

"Why the fuck would ya want ta hold a fuckin' meetin' in a fuckin' graveyard in the middle of the fuckin' night?" Arthur complained, rubbing the mud from the palms of his hands onto his trousers. He'd slipped on a patch of mud and, while fighting to regain his balance, had tripped over the corner of a gravestone closest to the path. The fall hadn't put him in a good mood, not that he'd been in a happy one to start off with.

"We want ta buy weapons not raise the flamin' dead!" Arthur snarled as if this was all Tommy's fault.

Thomas Shelby glanced over to where his unhappy brother walked, feet skidding in the mud once more. He replied easily, "It was the Brummagem Boys who requested this place." He didn't mention that he'd raised no complaint either to the venue or the time, knowing he'd get an ear full of grumbling.

Thomas and Arthur were walking through Undercliffe Cemetery, following one of the gravel pathways that meandered its way through rows upon rows of gravestones, to the church down below. A damp chill was in the air and a low-lying mist hung between the crowded gravestones. It was quiet up here away from the city. When they'd parked up the car there's been a barn owl hooting nearby but here it was eerily silent. No sounds drifted up from the outskirts of Birmingham and the road they'd come along lay silent.

To Thomas, a graveyard was an ideal place to choose if you wanted your activities to go unnoticed. It was out of the way and people avoided the place at night as they were scared of ghosts. It was just a pity that it had rained so hard over the past few days and the graveyard was muddy and filled with puddles that had yet to drain away. More rain clouds hung in the night sky, covering the moon and threatening to release more rain at any time. So far the promised storm was holding off and Tom hoped it would stay dry until the meeting was over, else Arthur would be blaming him for a soaking as well as the spill.

"How come you've not slipped once?" Arthur moaned. Tom skirted nimbly around the edges of a puddle that almost covered the entire pathway. Arthur did the same but skirted the opposite way. He'd already noticed the uncanny way Tommy had of avoiding the worst of the mud. "Have you got eyes like a bat, Tom?"

Once they'd passed the puddle Tom continued, "I'm just the same as you, Arthur. This will soon be over and you can go home to be tucked into a warm bed." He nodded at the tall gravestones around them. "You can even tell Linda you've been out on religious business." He chuckled, at the sour look crossing his brother's face. "The Brummagem Boys have a shipment of guns to sell. We need guns. If we're happy with the quality of the merchandise we can arrange payment and they'll deliver via the canals. Curly will take it from there."

"I still think we should have met down the pub," grumbled Arthur. He'd seen enough mud while fighting in the trenches and after tripping, and almost falling head first into a fresh grave, he was more than ready for a drink. He'd promised his wife he'd give up alcohol, but there were times in a man's life he needed to seek comfort in a bottle.

"I suggested the Garrison or another pub, but the boys wanted somewhere more neutral," Seeing Arthur about to argue, Thomas continued soothingly, "The oldest part of the graveyard isn't far away now. We'll soon be -."

A scream, a blood-curdling scream ripped through the silence.

"What the fuck was that?" Arthur stopped, eyes straining, trying to see ahead of him. His gun already pulled from the pocket of his voluminous overcoat. The words no sooner out his mouth than they heard the sound of a gun rapidly firing.

His heart accelerating Tom dived down behind a tall weeping angel, Arthur huddling beside him behind a rectangular gravestone. From up ahead, they heard the sounds of shouting and fighting, as violent men clashed. Then the loud crack of gunshots.

"It sounds like they've run into trouble," Tom whispered, his mind trying to puzzle this out. Was this a trap for them or the Brummagem gang? Or both? Who knew about their meeting? Who'd the information been passed to? There were no police whistles. Not the police then. How would this affect the Peaky Blinders? And most importantly, would the two of them get out of here in one piece?

Somewhere out of sight, he heard a man yell, "The bullets aren't stopping 'em! It's only slowing 'em down. Let's get out of here, Sam!"

Someone emptied another round, more muffled shouting, this time from further away. From the bottom of the hill came the sound of an engine starting, doors slamming, the squeal of car tires and finally, the car screaming off into the distance.

Neither Arthur or Tom said anything as the graveyard became quiet once more. Both men straining their senses as they waited behind their respective gravestones. What had gone on down there? The attackers must still be around, yet they hadn't heard anything further. This was no tranquil silence, it was a menacing one.

"Shall we circle around and see who we're dealing with?" suggested Tom, already rising to his feet and moving past Arthur to thread his way through the gravestones. Arthur rolled his eyes, as if he'd a choice! He wasn't about to let his brother go down there on his own. The two of them slowly wove their way through the field of tall gravestones, heading towards the spot where the men had been attacked.

When they grew close enough to see the rendezvous point, they hunkered down behind a raised grave, peering down to where the large stone crypt lay at the very centre of the cemetery. Above them the moon came out from between clouds, casting a cold light down onto the area. The brothers remained in hiding, looking for signs of movement in the shadows. It appeared empty of all life.

"Fresh meat," said a voice, right next to Thomas Shelby's ear.

Tom jumped, reflexes had him throwing a punch in the voice's direction. He missed, striking at empty air, falling forward, off-balance. The man was fast. He was also strong. Tom felt himself being picked up by the back of his collar and thrown.

Behind him, Arthur bellowed in anger. Tom landed and rolled. Slammed into a gravestone with his back and knocking the wind from his lungs. Even as he struggled to draw breath he rolled again, following the slope of the hill, almost hitting a gravemarker with his face before he came to a stop. Arthur had tried following him. He was still shouting, his words indistinguishable, but Tom caught the sound of flesh hitting flesh, as his brother laid into an assailant. Whoever was attacking Arthur had bitten off more than he could chew, if he thought he beat the man in a bare-knuckle fight. His eldest brother was known to be a skilled and ferocious fighter who'd killed men with his bare hands.

Tom's hand moved to his coat pocket, hoping the gun hadn't fallen out as he rolled. He sensed, more than saw, his attacker coming up behind him, going for a kick to his kidneys no doubt. Well, he wasn't beaten yet. This was nothing he hadn't been through before. Thomas Shelby might be down, but he wasn't out.

"Is everyone having fun?" a light feminine voice, completely out the blue, asked from somewhere nearby. "Why are all the best parties to be found in graveyards?"

Tom rolled over, taking in the scene around him, and feeling oddly foolish at being caught rolling in the mud by Buffy.

Dressed in her dark costume once more, she made a dramatic figure as she stood on top of a stone sarcophagus a short dark weapon held in her hand. Silvery moonlight highlighted her long blonde hair as she stood looking down upon the fight scene below her. Thomas looked across to where Arthur still fought two men, the third, the one who'd attacked him was gaping in amazement at the newcomer. Thomas did a double-take when he saw the man's face.

The glimpse he'd gotten earlier had suggested the man was ugly. Now he realised this wasn't just ugliness, this was bad deformity. All the man's forehead, his eyebrows and down the bridge of the nose was distorted. The thick protruding ridge of flesh made his eyes appear much smaller and hooded.

Was he a soldier whose face had been burned in an explosion? Or the victim of a poisonous gas attack? A quick check confirmed Arthur's attackers were all similarly deformed. Had they all been friends serving in the same regiment and become deformed during the war? Had they been paid to attack them?

Taking advantage of the man's distraction, Tom leaped to his feet and threw a fast punch at the man's cheek knocking him to the ground. Tom noticed close up he was even uglier. Not only was his face deformed but so were his eyes and his teeth looked...odd.

"Hey! Need a gatecrasher?" Buffy jumped from the crypt, twirling something at high speed in her hand mid-leap. Tom watched in amazement as she leaped across the wide gap, her hand slamming a weapon directly into the back of one of the men attacking Arthur.

Pain exploded in Thomas's right eye and cheek. The deformed man had slammed a haymaker into the right side of Tom's face. He staggered but somehow managed to keep his feet. Ducking, to avoid another blow, he flung himself forward tackling the man to the ground. Using the advantage of momentum, Tom's hands moved up to the deformed forehead and slammed the head backward. There was an audible crack as it hit the low stone gravestone below it. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out his gun. Placing it between the man's repulsive yellow eyes, he pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot had barely died away before he was on his feet, eyes going over to the where he'd last seen Arthur and Buffy fighting.

Arthur and Buffy were stood side by side watching him. Arthur wore a confused grin, Buffy a little smirk. Tom found himself grinning back at them. He'd no idea why.

Pulling his eyes away from Buffy's, he glanced over to where he'd last seen the deformed men fighting his brother. There weren't any bodies. His head turning from left and right as he searched the graveyard. Had Arthur let them escape? Where had they gone?

Buffy cleared her throat. "I dusted them. Here, take this." She offered over a wooden stake carved into a point at one end. It looked similar to the one she'd dropped in the gutter behind the playhouse. "If you ram that into his heart it'll kill him."

Tom looked down at the deformed man, who was obviously dead. "He's already dead."

The blonde tutted impatiently, "Sometimes you need to make doubly sure. Stake through the heart or a beheading normally does it. So do you wanna stake him or shall I?"

Tom blinked, confused. His eyes met Arthur's. "If it makes the little lady happy..." Arthur's words trailed off as Buffy shot him a death glare. "Wha' 'ave I said?"

"Less of the little!" Seeing that Tom was making no move to take the stake from her, Buffy shoved the dark-haired young man to one side. Her arm thrust the stake forward, piercing the soft chest of the vampire and suddenly there was a cloud of dust blowing in the breeze. She gave a small cough, before looking over at the two men.

Both Arthur and Thomas stared in disbelief at the empty spot where the body had lain. Apart from a dark stain on the stone, there was no sign of the attacker.

"I fuckin' love that!" crowed Arthur with a loud laugh. "If only I'd known it was so easy to get rid of bodies! We should 'ave been doing that years ago!"

Tom noticed Buffy had started to back away. He pinned her with his eyes and stepped closer, narrowing the gap between them. She seemed to be the one knowing what was going on here and he needed answers.

He asked, "Was this trap set for us?"

"I doubt it," Buffy replied. "I'd say it was more a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sneaking around in graveyards at night is not a wise thing to do." She looked down at the pocket where his gun lay and shook her head in disapproval. "They attacked your friends but I didn't want to get involved because of the guns. Guns and Buffy are so non-mixy."

A shiver ran through her, not a false but a real one, making Tom wonder how she came to have a hatred for guns. Had she been shot? Or had someone she loved been shot?

Buffy continued, "Your friends ran off, I took a couple of vam-, er gang members out. These three got away and went after you. I followed them and..."

"Who were they? Do you know?" Thomas asked, his eyes on her face, it appeared to close off at his questions. Buffy shrugged. He knew then she knew who they were or, at least, if not their identity, more than she was prepared to tell him.

"Their faces were deformed. Why?" Buffy dropped her eyes at the question. Shuffling from foot to foot. Was she about to run? Tom watched her closely. His body was battered and bruised, but if she ran he'd chase after her. Part of him hoped she would run. He'd like to know how she'd feel in his arms...

"Look," said Buffy. "I've absolutely no idea who they were. I only came here to meet Mabel Althorpe. I didn't realise this graveyard had a nest of..." Buffy looked from him to Arthur, and then off into the distance. "Um, yeah, they were just a gang on drugs. Bad drugs. Which causes, um, deformed faces. That type always need dusting, if you come across them."

"Tommy, look at all this dust. It's amazing."

Tom's head turned to see Arthur crouching beside piles of dust on the ground near where he'd been fighting. Had they turned to dust too? He'd been so busy with his own fight that he'd not seen Arthur's. He frowned as he thought over Buffy's last statement. Gangs on drugs still shouldn't turn into dust. And what was that about meeting Mabel Althorpe here? Mabel Althorpe was the girl from the dancing troupe who'd been found dead. It had been her funeral today.

"Buffy, what..." He turned to find the American had slipped away once more.

Arthur didn't want to linger around after that. He kept muttering there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of and then became uncharacteristically silent. Thomas was glad for the silence. There were too many questions circling in his head and the only one who could answer them all was Buffy.

A/N; Thanks to those who have reviewed.

I almost forgot to say...

Happy Christmas and Best Wishes to all readers for 2020


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